Liability
by Sandra E
Summary: You understand the distinction between the concept and the reality? Neither does Cordelia. CA


**Title:** Liability   
**Author:** Sandra   
**Email:** ArcThalia@aol.com  
**Status:** Completed   
**Spoilers:** Insignificant ones for all of season three.   
**Category:** Angst. Cordelia/Angel.   
Rating: PG   
**Summary:** You understand the distinction between the concept and the reality? Neither does Cordelia.   
**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Would appear on show by now, otherwise.   
**Author's Notes:** It's either this or S/B sex. And we have the wonderful, beautiful, amazing UPN for _that_. Live with it; I am.   
**Feedback:** Well, duh.   
**Etc:** First Angel fic. I'm as happy as a little girl. Thirty-minute, unbeta'd; aren't those the best? When just one line gives you as much inspiration as a naked Spike. Oh, baby.   
  
  
  
-x-   
  
"Paete, non dolet." ("It does not hurt, Paetus.")   
_-- Arria the Elder, after stabbing herself in 43 BC._   
  
-x-   
  
  
  
You. Yes, you. With last year's top and those horrible pants.   
  
What are you doing? With your head buried in that stinky book? Ostrich much? Seriously, what's going on? What's with the hair, and, worse, the attitude?   
  
All: "Yes, Angel, whatever you say, Angel, can I shine your shoes, Angel?". Pathetic.   
  
Well, no. Crossed _that_ bridge months ago. Oh, God.   
  
You're living a mistake.   
  
And you're just figuring that out _now_? Real quick, aren't you, Barbie?   
  
Let's get one thing straight. You are _not_ meant to be a Seer. You are _not_ meant to be stuck _here_, for crying out loud.   
  
You're meant to frolic in the sun, all tanned and happy, on some private island with a sandy beach. With a bikini for every day. With some bodybuilding airhead flavor of the week. You're meant to act. To be famous and popular and envied by every overweight, flat-chested, zit-faced little girl. To have a high-profile affair with some backwater art history professor; all sweet and way smarter than you that you'd dump for that guy in Ocean's Eleven.   
  
Right.   
  
Keep your day job.   
  
Or, would that be _night_?   
  
It's all his fault. If he's going down, he's taking everyone with him. Doesn't matter that you never asked for this. For any of this. Hell, you never even liked the guy. Lusting after him at the Bronze doesn't count. You were on the brink of dating that Harris fool, after all, so you have to take into account your deeply disturbed taste in men at the time. But, hey, you've changed, no?   
  
You have better taste in men now, but-   
  
Snooze freakin' fest. Each and every one of them. Every pretty face without a brain you've met so far.   
  
Groo.   
  
Right. Demony and stuff. Worked his mojo to the point where you were all "Oh, I love you, I love you!" and everything. Since when do you fall in love in a matter of days?   
  
Not that it was necessarily his fault. You _could_ just be starved for love.   
  
Whatever.   
  
You prefer living here, anyway. Having these hysterically painful visions. With him.   
  
He'll always be grr, you know. There's really no cure for that.   
  
Shanshu? Nah. Wesley? Uh. Hey, look at how wrong he's been **so** far. For all you know, that scroll's nothing more but a recipe for, say, an ancient flavor of ice cream. Rocky Road, with those little nuts.   
  
Nuts. Yes, you are.   
  
Could be the visions, could be the fact that one day, Hello, evil bitch vampire, the next, Mommy. Biology's never been your strong suit. In hindsight - yay.   
  
Biology's usually reserved for living things. As in, not Darla.   
  
Darla, who's died, what is it now? Three times?   
  
There's a difference between the concept of dying, and the reality of it. Technically, one-fifth of your friends are dead. Not counting Doyle, 'cause that's a different death all together. In theory, even if you were to die of, say, a headache, what's to say some gorgeous lawyer wouldn't give up his hand to bring you back? Still talking theory here. Willow. Well, hey, she's done it once, says who she wouldn't be persuaded into an encore?   
  
So, that's the concept.   
  
What's the reality?   
  
Angel's dead. Angel will always be dead. Leave it at that.   
  
Wesley is slipping away. His insecurities will get him in trouble soon enough. He doesn't talk to you as much anymore. You'd like to pretend it has nothing to do with Fred.   
  
Gunn. Gunn is a lot like you. Only he had friends before he came here. And a family. And respect. So, no, you're not all that alike, after all. Besides, what's keeping him here? Fred? Some ridiculous sense of obligation? It doesn't matter. As long as it's keeping him.   
  
And you? What's keeping _you_ here?   
  
Pain.   
  
Yeah, good one. Number one on Santa's list.   
  
But that's reality. It doesn't go away just because you ignore it.   
  
Yeah, it's cool saving the world. Helping the helpless, yadda, blah, moo. It's a decent gig. But you can _feel_ it, can't you?   
  
The falling.   
  
No problem, wanna live. Famous last words.   
  
Oh, well. Smile. Greet the vampire.   
  
"Hey."   
  
"Hey."   
  
"You all right? You look a little pale."   
  
Swallow. Turn. Play the game. "I can't hear you, Angel. My left arm is tingling. Wesley, am I having a heart attack? Is Angel really wearing better pants than I am?"   
  
"Oh, no. I am _not_ waiting around for yet another debate that will lead into certain bloodshed. I'd rather go transcribe an indecipherable Ukrainian scroll. Do call once you're quite finished, children."   
  
And just like that, Wes is gone.   
  
But Angel's still here. "Cordelia?"   
  
You're his only friend. Well, only female friend. Hmm. Can Angel ever be _just_ friends with a woman? Probably not.   
  
"Are you sure everything's okay?"   
  
Nod and avoid. "Positive. Speaking of which-you hungry?"   
  
"It's just," he mumbles, undeterred. "You haven't had a vision in a while and-"   
  
"And you're bored?"   
  
(Go and find another vampire do fornicate with, Angel.)   
  
Like you'd really say that. Cheerfully: "Sorry. I went and watched a Miss Cleo commercial and still nothing. Guessing it's dry season. All is well in the village. The villagers are happy, giving thanks, killing turkeys and generally being in good spirits."   
  
"That's not why I'm asking."   
  
Don't look at him. Don't. Computer, that's it. Type away, focus your eyes on the screen.   
  
"You haven't been sleeping, and-"   
  
"Angel."   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"When you were a kid, did anyone ever read you bedtime stories?"   
  
Look at him frown worriedly, like he thinks you're insane. The map is not the territory, mister.   
  
"What do-"   
  
"Just that I bought some kid stuff for-" Don't say baby. "Anyway. I was just thinking about whether things changed much since you, well, died."   
  
"Cordelia, I don't-"   
  
"Did you have stories about old ladies that swallowed flies?" Hint, hint.   
  
Don't laugh when he blinks. Stay cool and calm and collected. You're giving it a shot. A good one.   
  
"Ah. No. But we had old ladies that swallowed-"   
  
"Oh, gross! Stop with the details before I toss my cookies."   
  
"You don't have any cookies to toss. You haven't been eating."   
  
Ignore him. The concept is much more interesting than reality. Carry on. "No wonder you grew up all lecherous and sleazy. There's much to be learned from kiddie books. I'm just starting to figure out what Giles was talking about."   
  
"Scary. What'd you learn?"   
  
"That you gotta swallow a horse if you swallow a fly."   
  
Stop typing, look at him because he's not saying anything. Open your mouth to reassure him you're still clinging to sanity and-   
  
"Oh, God!"   
  
Dizzy and nauseous, and the floor is driving spikes through your back. A silver blade slashing across the air, stabbing at your heart, pushing deeper until your skin melts around your bones; disfigured and Oh, Mandy, you came and you gave without taking, but he can't stop you from shaking. And then, the worst is gone, the screaming inside your head stops. But the numbing, dull ache within your muscles, yeah, still here.   
  
Think beach. Sand and volleyball and suntan lotion. New boots, smell of oranges at Christmas, kissing Angel, landing a national commercial, day at the spa. . .   
  
"Cordelia! Cordy! God, please-"   
  
Yeah, yeah. Support, you got it. Hands and hugging and clutching desperately, but not helping.   
  
"Wesley! Something's wrong-"   
  
Tune him out. Stir and mumble: "The menu is not the meal."   
  
Dying doesn't sound so bad anymore, does it, Princess?   
  
"What? Co-you can't keep doing this!" Don't listen to him yell at you. He doesn't deserve to yell at you. He lies and he hides and then he expects you to read between the lines and be his little helper forever. No. You came. You saw. You suffered. You want out.   
  
"-not eating-"   
  
But it's not his fault, really. He's just the unlikely hero. One vampire, one soul, one path to redemption. One, as in, yeah. Ow.   
  
Push his fingers away, untangle yourself, and speak, but try not to whisper. "Two ugly green things. Caritas. Lorne's in trouble. Actually, no, not in trouble, but his. . . I don't know what it is."   
  
"It's okay," listen to him lie. "Wesley, beep Gunn and tell him to meet us there. I'll-"   
  
Interrupt rudely. "It's a fairy, I think. Funny coincidence." Don't be _so_ amazed. Yeah, you can still giggle. What kind of a human would you be if you couldn't? "It's a fairy. I'm getting a migraine over a drunk Tinkerbell."   
  
"Are you going to be okay?"   
  
Try not to scream. Why doesn't he just shut up? _Always_ the same question and you _always_ have to lie. What a depressingly clueless vampire.   
  
"Of course. Shower. Sleep. Train. Kick your ass. Not necessarily in that order."   
  
"I'll hold you to that," he smiles and you're about to forgive him. Wuss.   
  
"Yeah, yeah, hurry up before Lorne has to close the place again."   
  
Watch him as he grabs the sword; manly muscles and all. One sword - either he's feeling extremely confident, or he's just being stingy again. Lo and behold the simple and extremely cheap Angel way. Why pay for a Seer when you can make one need you for free?   
  
"Oh, what happened? Is it something with the kitchen, 'cause I really didn't mean to-" Fred.   
  
"Fred! Great. Can you make sure Cordy gets to bed okay?" Angel.   
  
"Hello? Not Forrest Gump here." Totter over to the desk, lean, sigh to yourself and look up. Happy, happy, happy. "Tinkerbell's waiting, mister."   
  
Angel, in all his undead glory, is almost out of your sight- relieved, who you? -but there he goes with the goofiness.   
  
Quietly, he looks at you - you specifically - and asks, "So, what exactly happened to the old lady that swallowed a fly?"   
  
Like you'd tell him. Buy a vowel, dufus.   
  
"Oh! I know, I know!" Fred. God. "She died. Because she swallowed a fly, and then she had to swallow a spider, and she kept swallowing things to make it better, but it-"   
  
Watch Angel go whiter than white. It'd be funny if. . .   
  
If you were frolicking in the sun, all tanned and happy, on some private island with a sandy beach. With a bikini for every day. With some bodybuilding airhead flavor of the week. If you were famous and popular and envied by every overweight, flat-chested, zit-faced little girl. If you were having a delicious tryst with some backwater art history professor; all sweet and way smarter than you that you'd dump for that guy in Ocean's Eleven.   
  
Or Angel.   
  
You're getting too old for this. You have reached 555-O-V-E-R. You've lost your fashion sense. Among other things. But you still have Angel. And Angel still needs you.   
  
Speaking of-   
  
Wish he'd stop looking at you like that.   
  
"Wesley, stay here. Take care of Cordy."   
  
"Angel, what about-"   
  
"Let me worry about that. You just make sure nothing happens to Cordelia."   
  
Too late, buster.   
  
And with a last, broody glance, he's gone. Over the hills and far away.   
  
Guess it's worth it. Sheer goodness; sheer heart of being helpful and needed. No one else needed you before. So, grit your teeth, say something funny and leave Wes and Fred alone. They could use alone time. Alone. Three times in one mental paragraph.   
  
Toddle up the stairs to Angel's bedroom. Crash. Hug the pillow. Cry, but pretend you're not. Blame those horrible pants you're wearing. Hope for the best. It's gonna get better soon. Promise. Scout's honor.   
  
And-   
  
One day - _one_ day you'll stop having visions. God, yes. Cordelia Chase, free and happy and possibly bitchy because Angel won't need you around anymore. Wesley's the language guy, the boss, the ex watcher, ex demon hunter extravaganza. Fred's a freakin' genius. Gunn's real fast with, well, anything pointy or sharp.   
  
And, you, well, you're training. So, in case the visions are miraculously taken away from you, you'd still be helpful. Secure your place in the pack and all that.   
  
Be a Seer, or be a warrior. Whichever comes first. It doesn't matter.   
  
Well, that's the concept, at least. Reality is-   
  
You know you'll stop having visions. There'll be no pain, no problem, no guilt, no knowledge. God, yes. Stop all those bad things happening to you. You won't see burning people, gushing wounds, you won't feel hate and rage and fear; there'll be absolutely _no_ pain.   
  
Hmm.   
  
It'll be a lovely funeral.   
  
  
  
-end-


End file.
